If you’re a regular bikini waxer, you’ve probably had at least one terrifying experience. Still, we doubt your story can beat the one detailed in Robert Rave’s new Summer read, Waxed. Enjoy the excerpt below, and share your stories in the comments! We’ll pick a winner next week and send you a copy of the saucy, sassy novel which details the lives of three sisters running a high end bikini wax salon in New York (in stores August 3rd).

When I rang the door, this old gray-haired Russian woman answered and didn’t say a word, just pointed behind me. She quickly stepped outside and shut the front door—clearly hiding me from someone or someone from me. She led me back down her front steps and into her garage.”

“Her garage?” Stacy gasped, leaning back in her chair, the tension and painful memories of her past sexual history slowly beginning to dissipate.

“She opens the door and there is this old, coffee-stained sheet that separated a beat-up old Buick from the rest of the garage. She pointed at two card tables stuck next to one another and motioned for me to lie down. Again, she didn’t say a word. I’m not even sure she spoke English. I removed my mini-skirt and reluctantly climbed up on the wobbly tables. Honestly, it was so disgusting—dirty with dried wax and various stains so gross they looked like you could catch an STD simply by looking at them.” Sofia’s mind goes back to the grungy garage, and she can feel her skin against the rough wood. She inadvertently begins to itch the base of her neck with her index finger as if she feels the reused wax scraping against her bare flesh.

“I sat there with my panties on and waited as Mrs. Mickic put a sauce pan on an old electric hot plate and melted some wax. She looked like she was cooking Sunday dinner! She told me to lie back flat, so I did. And the next thing I know, she’s ripping my panties off without warning. Then she turned on the AM radio and it was some preacher talking about the sins of the flesh.”

“Nooo! It’s like a horror movie!” Stacy was into it now.

“Tell me about it. Here I am, lying naked on a table, about to have my privates tidied up, and there’s some preacher screaming about the evils of sex. A few seconds later, she slopped the wax on with a BUTTER KNIFE. Yes, I said a butter knife. I will only eat foods that can be cut with a fork to this day.” Sofia pauses and pictures the tarnished, silver knife dripping with glue, and quivers. She snaps out of it and continues. “Then she began to rip the paper off with no advance notice. At one point, I thought she ripped my entire lady bits off with the paper.” Stacy grimaces. “Anyway, she continued to go back and forth from the electric plate and dripping the hot wax both on the floor and my inner thigh. She was silent the entire time. Until…”

“Until, what?” Stacy says, eyes widening.

“All of the sudden, in broken English, she starts singing Rip it. Rip it real good to the melody of the old eighties song “Whip It” by the group Devo. You know the one, right?” Sofia sings the melody and Stacy nods in excitement.

“Shut up!”

“Never. You know the part where they shout out ‘Crack that Whip!’? In her bad English and all of her gray-haired glory, Mrs. Mickic sang “‘Wax that Strip!’”